


The Succinct Bucket List Corollary

by OpalJade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bucket List, First Kiss, Let's Write Sherlock Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-03 02:37:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpalJade/pseuds/OpalJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a tense cab ride home, John and Sherlock decide to write down their bucket list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My endless gratitude to the amazing Lariope for the lightning-fast beta. (I wouldn't have the guts to post anything publicly without her stamp of approval!)

~~~***~~~

“You truly are a colossal idiot,” says Sherlock, his voice sharp as a guillotine blade. “Did you not hear me telling you to abort the plan?”

John shakes his head in frustration. He can’t even talk—Jesus— _abort_ the plan? As if there’d been time. As if he could defy the bloody laws of physics!

And how many fucking times has he said the _exact same thing_ to Sherlock in the years he has known him? And how many times has Sherlock ignored John’s command? And _he’s_ the idiot? Really, if they were to tabulate some sort of ‘you’re-stupid-for-doing-something-dangerous-against-my-directives’ list, Sherlock would come out on top by far. By very far, thank you very fucking much. 

“You could’ve been seriously injured—” continues Sherlock, staring out the cab window. His fists are clenched white against his trousers. 

“Christ, Sherlock, people actually _pay_ to bungee jump. It’s perfectly safe.” 

Sherlock speaks through gritted teeth. “John, I thought this is what he was going to use to kill her. Your gear could’ve been tampered with.”

That’s news to John. “Well, if _you’d_ shared what _you_ thought a little sooner—I might’ve had time to—”

Sherlock interrupts. “You know my methods. I was still collecting data. You should have waited for my instructions.”

It feels as if the tense atmosphere in the taxi rises tenfold every time either one of them opens his mouth. 

John takes a deep breath. This is unfair. There had been _no_ danger. 

“I was _safe_ , I checked,” replies John, upset at Sherlock’s unjustified anger.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes—and you’re so well known for your impeccable observational skills.”

John sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he should’ve waited before taking the dive to see what Sherlock had discovered, but that’s not the point. The point is, Sherlock should’ve told him what he was thinking before they even got to the site today. He would not have jumped, then. 

Well, he’s not about to apologize for being impulsive if ‘Mr Reckless’ himself insists on insulting him.

“Well, maybe I was just trying to cross something off my bucket list,” John says instead. He’d like to think he’s trying to diffuse the tension with a bit of humour, but, Christ, it just sounds like an immature jibe. 

Sherlock just shakes his head and his mouth opens and closes as if he wants to say something else. “You have no idea what it was like to watch you jump,” he finally spits out.

John stares at Sherlock in disbelief.

Sherlock’s eyes widen when he realizes what he has just said. He turns away from John abruptly and goes back to staring out of the cab window. 

“No idea whatsoever.” John laughs bitterly. “You are such an asshole.”

A deadly silence settles in the taxi for the rest of the ride back to 221B.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Sherlock dashes out of the taxi as soon as it stops in front of their flat. John pays the cabbie with Sherlock’s cash (they’ve come to an agreement—Sherlock leaves money in a jar for John to use for their cab rides, and this way they both sidestep what irks them the most: John having to spend money on a commodity, and Sherlock having to wait a few precious seconds before barging out of a vehicle). 

Sherlock disappears inside 221B in record time. The door slams shut behind him. 

John stands on the sidewalk for a few minutes and contemplates walking to the pub for a pint instead of going in after Sherlock to settle their disagreement. However—much to his surprise—Sherlock pokes his head out the door and says in a somewhat conciliatory tone, “Come in, John. You can go to the Red Fox later if you’re still mad at me.” 

John stands in place, staring down at his shoes. He feels as if his anger has pooled all the way down to his feet, preventing him from moving. 

“John?” 

He lifts his head and makes eye contact with Sherlock. Regret is obvious in the way Sherlock presses his lips together and the way his eyes are wide and pleading (the honest kind of regret—John can certainly tell the difference after all this time.) 

John sighs, lets some of the hurt go, and goes in. The tension eases further once he steps inside. It’s as if 221B is their buffer zone. 

Instead of going upstairs, Sherlock leans against the wall, stares straight ahead, and says, “I regret my poor choice of words earlier. I suppose it would’ve been better for me to express my worry in a different way.”

John stands next to him and nods. 

Sherlock glances at him briefly, swallows, and goes back to looking in front of him as if an interesting species of poisonous fungus has suddenly tarnished the wall paper. After a few seconds he adds, “I acknowledge that I’ve done a diversity of actions against your wishes in the past, and that it seems unfair to you to be critized for something I constantly put you through… but you scared me. However, I still don’t know how to pause mid deduction to let you know what I’m thinking. I believe that will _never_ change… I am not purposely excluding you.” 

He knows how difficult it is for Sherlock to not only apologize but also to decipher what he’s apologizing for—and then put it all into words. 

Sherlock continues. “And I’m sorry I called you a colossal idiot. It was wrong of me to point it out immediately.”

John wants to warn Sherlock not to ruin the apology, but sees the small smile on Sherlock’s face. This is another way—with humour—that Sherlock apologizes (John has learned to translate Sherlock a while ago). He smirks. “Well, you’re still an asshole.” (John knows Sherlock can translate him as well.)

“I know,” he says and then gives John the full smile--the one that reaches up all the way to the corner of his eyes. John likes how that smile makes him feel—effervescent-like—but he’d be at a complete loss if he ever had to explain why to someone else (or to himself come to think of it).

Sherlock turns and climbs up the stairs.

John follows, smiling. He knows how this goes. They will go inside the flat, he will make tea, and they will go over the case and argue again—but without the tension this time. John will be able to share his line of thinking, and even if Sherlock ‘has his method,’ he will feel better for having said his piece.

However, halfway up the stairs, Sherlock stops abruptly, and John almost bumps into him.

“What was that you said earlier about crossing off something on a bucket?”

It takes a few seconds for John to realize what Sherlock is talking about. 

“Ha. I was referring to a bucket list.”

Sherlock gives him a puzzled look before proceeding up the stairs again.

“And what is that? Something else elementary I missed in school?” 

John chuckles. It’s so much more pleasant to be amused with Sherlock than to be angry with him. 

“No—it’s nothing taught on the curriculum,” replies John. 

They enter the flat. Sherlock removes his coat, then his scarf, and hangs them up on the back of the door. John places his jacket on the hook adjacent. When he turns around, Sherlock is looking at him with a curious expression. “So what is it? And what does bungee jumping have anything to do with it?”

Lord knows what Sherlock imagines a Bucket List to be. John’s almost scared to explain it to him. 

“Basically, a bucket list is just a bunch of things you’d like to do before you die,” John pauses. He’s not really sure of the exact explanation, but this is his own take on it anyway. “Er, I guess those things are usually itemized in the form of a list… typically by people who only have a short time left to live. I guess it’s something along the lines of ‘no longer putting off things you’ve always wanted to do because time in running out.’”

“Why bucket?” Sherlock says frowning. “No—don’t say it. Let me deduce it.” It takes a millisecond for Sherlock to put it together. “Ha. Is it historically rooted in the fact that individuals about to be hanged had to stand on a bucket before being granted one final word before the bucket was kicked away?”

John swears that Sherlock’s mind is like a skipping stone, leaping over tidbits of facts easily to make quick rippling connections.  
John reflects on this. He’s never really thought about it before—but it makes sense. That’s probably where the expression “kick the bucket” comes from.

“You’re probably right,” says John.

“Undoubtedly,” agrees Sherlock. “Do you have such a list?”

John shakes his head. “No—not really. I mean, there are things I’d really like to do before I check out, but I’ve never bothered to write them down.”

A phone call from Lestrade interrupts their conversation. He informs them that Sherlock was right--of course he was--and that they’ve arrested the boyfriend. 

Sherlock says nothing and sits down in his chair. He grabs the latest journal of _Forensic Sciences_ and starts reading attentively (though John can’t figure out why he’s re-reading the darn thing since he’s already torn every single article apart all week.) 

After a few minutes, he sighs and tosses the journal down. “Astonishing that such drivel gets published in a peer reviewed journal.” 

“Yes, so you keep saying.”

Sherlock shifts restlessly. John thinks Sherlock wants to go over the case again.

“What is it?” asks John.

“You say a bucket list is an official itemized list of what one wishes to accomplish before one’s death?”

“Yes—something like that. Except probably less formal than what you’re making it sound like. It’s not a legally binding document or anything.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. He does this so often, it’s a wonder they’re still almond-shaped, John thinks. 

Sherlock stands and walks to the fireplace thoughtfully. He drums his fingers on the mantle as if he’s playing the piano andante.

“John, I’ve been giving this some thought, and I think we should make our own ‘bucket lists’,” says Sherlock to the mirror. 

John looks up and makes eye connection with Sherlock’s reflection. It’s almost second nature for them to converse this way. “You’ve been giving it some thought, have you?” John says, amused. 

Sherlock ignores the teasing. “Yes—just now—and I’ve come to the conclusion that there are a number things I’d still like to do, and since death is always eminent in our profession, it’s not a terrible idea to get started.” 

Sherlock’s eyes light up, and he suddenly seems enthralled by the idea. He pivots away from the mirror and somehow gracefully ends up directly in front of John’s chair and bends down low to eye level. “We could do these things when there are no cases on, John.” 

And then, in one stride, he reaches the messy desk and searches frantically for paper and a writing tool.

Christ, it’s terrifying to think about the kind of things his outrageous flatmate will put on his bucket list. John regrets ever mentioning it.

But on the other hand, it might be a good thing. It wouldn’t hurt to know (and prepare for) the wild adventures Sherlock Holmes has in mind for the future. The truth of the matter is, John feels so strongly about his friend—his best friend he emphasizes in his mind (though ‘best’ still doesn’t feel powerful enough to describe what Sherlock means to him)—that he suddenly needs to know what Sherlock envisions doing and how John can ensure his safety because… well, because… because without Sherlock…  
Just like many other times before, the thought goes unfinished in his mind. John knows it’s no use thinking about the reasons--and the implications--of what Sherlock means to him. All he knows is that Sherlock makes him feel alive. (It’s best to leave it at that.)

John looks at his best friend who is now scribbling away furiously on the back of a used envelope and thinks that this day has turned out quite different than he had anticipated after that awful cab ride.

“Aren’t you going to write down yours?” says Sherlock without looking up. 

“Sure, eventually. I think I have time to take a shower before death comes knocking at the door, though.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, so John gets up and leaves him there with his frantic scribblings. John thinks he’ll come up with a list while he’s showering.

 

~~~***~~~

 

Twenty-five minutes later, John comes out of the shower and finds the flat empty. He calls out, “Sherlock?!” just to make sure. No answer. He checks his phone and sure enough there’s a text from Sherlock that confirms his absence—but not where he’s gone. Typical.

Out for the rest of the evening—SH

John frowns and hopes Sherlock will check in again before he goes to bed. He genuinely hopes that Sherlock hasn’t taken off to get a head start on his bucket list. The thought scares him a bit. But he sees that the envelope is still on the desk—the scribblings and scratched out bits apparent even from afar. He decides he’d better take a peek at what’s on there for Sherlock’s own good—and not just because he’s dying of curiosity.

Sherlock’s Bucket List has seven items on it.

_Travel to Egypt and solve great pyramid conundrum_  
 _Raise bees_  
 _Expedition to the Amazon (find lost city Z)_  
 _Finish proof of Riemann Hypothesis (share profit with JW)_  
 _Solve the Black Dahlia Murder_  
 _Langley, Virginia; decode the 4th Kryptos inscription_  
 _Walk along ‘Severed Foot Beach’ in British Columbia. (to figure out why severed feet consistently float ashore. Possibly keep one for myself.)_

John finds himself affectionately amused by Sherlock’s list. It’s not a typical list--not by any means—but it makes him smile all the more because it is _so_ Sherlock.

He reads it again and smirks.

 _Finish proof of Riemann Hypothesis (share profit with JW)_ As if he could even follow the derivation of the Riemann Hypothesis—but yeah—the prize money would be nice! He wonders if it’s true that Sherlock is actually close to solving it. He wouldn’t be surprised. 

_Raise Bees._ This one has him puzzled the most. He can’t wait to ask Sherlock about it. 

Which reminds him, where the hell is Sherlock?

~~~***~~~

Two hours later, there’s still no word from the future bee raiser, and John hasn’t written one single item on _his_ list.

He wants to—but the only things that come to mind are all what would be considered anti-bucket because he keeps coming up with activities that are safe, relaxing and low on adrenaline. As long as he’s got Sherlock Holmes, there’s no need to seek out any extreme adventures—it’d be like adding wind to a forest fire or something. 

In the end, John spends more time trying to compose a text to Sherlock that doesn’t sound too needy than working on his list. He sends out this message after discarding the three previous ones.

_Hope you haven’t gone off to collect bees or something…_

No reply comes, and John composes what he calls a ‘needy’ text so he can go to bed in peace.

_Okay, just let me know you’re safe. Good night._

The reply comes almost immediately.

 _I’m safe. Good night, John._

John knows Sherlock likes to be brief--especially in a text, and the fact that he has added his name there warms John. Christ, he knows it’s stupid to even go there—but it feels intimate, and deep down, John craves these little signs that Sherlock cares about him.

John goes to bed smiling, the awful cab ride all but forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My eternal gratitude to the lovely Lariope for the alpha and the beta on this chapter. Your help was much appreciated!

~~~***~~~

John thinks Sherlock has forgotten all about the sharing of ‘Bucket Lists’—and that’s fine with him. He never did put down pen to paper.

But two days later, on a Saturday afternoon, minutes before he heads out to watch the home season opener of Arsenal vs Tottenham—Sherlock shows up with a piece of folded paper and shoves it into John’s hand. 

“My bucket list,” he says. His cheeks are pink, and he’s looking down at his feet.

“Oh, I thought you’d forgotten all about that. Sorry, I never ended up writing mine.”

Sherlock frowns, scans John’s face, and then tries to retrieve his list from John’s fingers. “Never mind,” he says as he pulls harder on the paper that John refuses to let go.

“Just… just hold on, will you?” John says. “I didn’t say I didn’t want us to share our lists.”

“Now is clearly not a good time. It is obvious to me that you are on your way to a football match with…” he looks down at John’s jacket, “Mike Stamford and his wife plus sister-in-law.”

This temporarily distracts John. “ _How_ can you possibly know that?”

“Clearly you’re going to a match since you’re wearing your Arsenal jersey your sister Harriet gave you two Christmases ago. Easy. But you usually buy the tickets yourself when you go to a match. And how do I know that, you ask? Because—”

“Stop, stop,” John laughs. “You’re just trying to distract me with your deductions, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s worked in the past.”

“Yeah, yeah—I know. But right now, I’m really interested in seeing what’s on your final draft,” John says. 

John unfolds the piece of paper quickly and much to his dismay, there’s only one thing written on the list and it’s his name. 

_John_

John frowns as he turns towards Sherlock (who is now sitting in his chair, reading that dratted journal again!)

“Er, I think you gave me the wrong paper. This just has my name on it.”

“Itstherightpaper,” Sherlock mumbles in one breath.

“That’s your bucket list? _‘John’_?”

“Outstanding, you can read your name,” he says. “No wonder you were accepted into medical school,” he adds under his breath just in case his sarcasm wasn’t obvious. 

What is obvious is that something has Sherlock nervous. 

But John ignores him—he’s more interested in figuring out why Sherlock’s final draft only has his name on it, whereas before it’d had seven really cool things. 

“This doesn’t even make sense, Sherlock. How can a person be something on a bucket list? And what happened to the bees?” 

Sherlock’s sigh is long and deep. “Yes, there were more things, but I like to be succinct, and you were the lowest common denominator.”

“I see,” says John, though he doesn’t. Not really. “That’s nice.” 

Sherlock shakes his head and walks off to the kitchen, sits on his stool and prepares a slide with the algae sample that’s been soaking in a cup (John’s, of course) for the last forty-eight hours. “You should get going for the match, you’re going to be late,” he says in a clipped voice. 

But John’s gut tells him that he’d better not leave this one alone. Sherlock is acting weird (and Lord knows the parameters of that particular word are far reaching) so he needs to take a moment and figure things out because he’s sure there’s something underneath it all.

John understands why Sherlock has called him the lowest common denominator. He means that John’s intrinsic to all the things he listed on his list. That in itself is no big deal. If John had bothered to write his list, he would have assumed that his best friend would be there to tag along too. So that’s not the odd part. What he doesn’t quite understand is why Sherlock is all flustered about it. He’s acting as if John has insulted his latest comprehensive treatise on the science of bucket lists or worse, has questioned his sense of observation, like in Baskerville.

He stares at Sherlock while Sherlock stares at his algae. He takes his phone out and dials Mike Stamford. 

“Hi, Mike, Listen, I’ve decided to skip the game this afternoon. Something’s come up, and I’m going to stay put this afternoon after all.”

At the end of the line, Mike, of course, worries something is wrong. “No, no, Sherlock is fine. We’re both fine. It’s just—something. I’m sorry. Yeah, I’ll still pay you for my ticket if your brother won’t take it—don’t worry, mate. Bye, have fun.”

John hangs up, leans against the counter and crosses his arms. 

Sherlock lifts his head. “That was unnecessary.”

“Nope, that was necessary. Quite necessary in fact.”

“Because I wrote your name on a piece of paper?” 

“No, because you don’t want to tell me why, and you’re nervous about it. I can make deductions too, you know.” 

Sherlock raises a doubtful eyebrow but says nothing. He goes back to observing his slide under the microscope. He’s probably complaining to the magnified algae cells in his field of vision that John is being an idiot.

Well, it seems it’s going to be up to him to detangle this one, which seems a little unfair since he feels Sherlock is the one who complicated things in the first place. 

“Sherlock, am I really your bucket list?” 

Sherlock slowly nods his head yes.

“Tell me why, please. I’d really like to know.”

“Weren’t you proclaiming, mere seconds ago, that you too could make deductions?” says Sherlock. His fingers don’t form air quotes around ‘deductions,’ but his tone does.

Christ, what has Sherlock so on the defensive? 

“Fine. My deduction is that something has you all bothered and nervous because you’re being an arse for no good reason other than the fact that I didn’t write my list down and—”

“That’s not a deduction, that’s a false inference based on—” 

John stops Sherlock. “Shhh, I’m not done. You should know better than to interrupt mid-deduction.”

This somehow manages to extract a quarter of a smile from Sherlock. But still, he looks so… unhappy. His expression calls to mind Baskerville.

 _Ha_. John thinks, _This is probably about feelings._

Sherlock probably doesn’t know how to tell John what their friendship means to him. That’s why Sherlock wanted to see John’s list first!

“Okay, right—er, my deduction is that you’re in a tiffy because I didn’t make a list, and you wanted to—”

Sherlock interrupts him again. “As per usual—you have it all wrong.”

John takes a deep breath in. “Well, explain yourself then, you bloody tosser! Out with it. And I won’t let you get away with ‘you know my methods’—this is not a case. It’s just you and me trying to have a conversation.”

Sherlock finally looks up and fixes his gaze on John. John thinks nonsensically that the microscope lenses are lucky to have such stunning eyes laid on them so often.

“The pyramids, John, they mean nothing if you’re not by my side. Everything on that list—the Riemann hypothesis, the Amazon, the Kryptos, the severed foot beach, even the bees—are all meaningless if I don’t have you with me.”

“But why?” pushes John.

Sherlock runs a frantic hand through his hair. His sigh is so long and deep that John worries he’s going to collapse a lung or something. “I don’t know how to make it any clearer,” he says desperately. 

John hears the fear and doubt sharpening Sherlock’s voice. He recognizes its searing edge from their time in Baskerville. He backs off. 

“Okay, okay, Sherlock, I get it. You want me around to admire you while you solve the unsolvable.”

“Can you honestly be this obtuse?” asks Sherlock.

“Then say it, Sherlock. Say what it means.”

Sherlock stands up, glares at him, and then seems to make a decision. 

“It means, you imbecile, that _you_ , John Watson, trump all the mysteries. It means that the thing I want most to do before I die is _you_. It means that when I’m on my deathbed, about to draw my last breath, it’s _your_ hand I want holding mine. It’s your face I want to see. And it’s _you_ whom I want to kiss me goodbye.” 

The words stun John; he freezes until their meaning shatters something inside he’d stored away. Something he thought was impossible. And now what he feels for Sherlock can crystalize into something concrete. 

John’s no expert, but this is just about the most beautiful declaration that he’s ever heard (well, minus the imbecile part). And it’s directed at him.

From Sherlock. 

Sherlock, his best friend, his flatmate, and one of the most brilliant minds of their generation thinks that he’s more important than the great Pyramids. More important than dismembered feet too. 

Sherlock wants him by his side until the end, and he wants John to _kiss_ him.

It’s a bit overwhelming, but when he looks at Sherlock who is all wide-eyed and intense and looking like he’s about to bolt—John forgets about his own need to process and just goes to Sherlock. 

A million conversations occur when their eyes connect. All the nuances, all the longing, and all the declarations are said, and yet not one word is spoken. 

John reaches for Sherlock’s face and cradles it with both hands, his thumbs running over Sherlock’s glorious cheekbones, and says, “Do I need to wait until you’re on your deathbed to kiss you—or can I do so right now?”

Sherlock swallows. “Now is preferable,” he murmurs. 

John’s feels like his heart is beating out of its ribcage as he crosses the invisible threshold and guides Sherlock’s head down towards his. When their lips touch, he feels Sherlock’s hands tentatively settle high on his back. John smiles into the kiss as he realizes that is all new for Sherlock. 

But it seems Sherlock likes to lead so John lets him. His kisses are insistent, warm, and gloriously honest.

And when John whispers, “Open your mouth, Sherlock,” it doesn’t feel awkward at all. It feels like the simple easiness between them extends into that context as well. 

Sherlock opens his mouth and runs his tongue against John’s lips inquisitively. It’s almost as if he’s tracing a question mark with his tongue. John pushes Sherlock’s head down a bit more and nibbles Sherlock’s lips into opening wider. Sherlock exhales into the kiss and then slides his tongue against John’s experimentally. John moans softly at the silky contact. His stomach feels like a heavy sandbag settling into his groin. Sherlock can investigate all he wants. 

They kiss and kiss, and Sherlock learns the rhythm in no time. His arms slide down the curve of John’s spine and wrap themselves around his waist to pull him in close and tight. 

John leans into Sherlock; their legs tangle as they continue to kiss until the momentum forces them take a few sporadic steps backwards. They stumble against the fridge and finally break contact. 

John half laughs when he opens his eyes and sees a flushed Sherlock seemingly looking back and forth from the table to John as if he can’t believe they moved that far while kissing. 

“I hope you’re not calculating our momentum,” John says lightly. 

Sherlock smiles, more at ease with this line of thinking. 

“No, only how many Joules of work were exerted.” 

“Ha. So you and me, you call that work, then?” John teases.

“No—not work. Just a simple corollary.”

 _A corollary._ He chuckles slightly. “Are you saying that our getting together was a corollary... er, a natural consequence of writing our bucket list?” John likes the idea.

“Yes, but don’t try to take any credit, John. You didn’t even write a list.”

“I didn’t need to.”

“And why is that?”

“Because my bloody life with you is enough of an adventure,” John says. “I don’t need to plan a white water rafting trip in Switzerland because next week we might just be doing that—while chasing an art thief or something insane like that.”

Sherlock smiles broadly. “That actually sounds like fun.”

John grins. Sherlock looks stunning, hair all disheveled and cheeks pink. He feels like touching him again, but he knows that Sherlock’s nowhere near his deathbed and that there’s absolutely no need to rush this new thing between them. 

“Okay, don’t get any funny ideas about rafting. Why don't you tell me about your list instead. I’ve been wondering about the bees.”

Sherlock bends down and presses his lips to John’s cheek firmly—like it’s a punctuation mark of some sort. He grabs John by the sleeve and pulls him enthusiastically towards his bedroom.

“Come, I’ve something to show you.”

They walk into Sherlock’s bedroom, and Sherlock quickly draws his thick curtain open. The late afternoon sun beams down, gold and soft, on the hardwood floor. Sherlock unlatches the side lock, opens his window wide, and sticks out his head and looks down.

“Here, take a look,” he says.

Sherlock moves out of the way, and John peers out the window. He’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to be looking at, but he feels so giddy at the moment that Sherlock could point to a flower box filled with dismembered thumbs and he’d still grin from ear to ear. 

From behind, Sherlock drapes a loose arm around his waist and squeezes in beside him. “Look under the window sills.”

John bends way down, and he sees a grapefruit-sized beehive attached to the cement edge. There are two fat bees resting on the exterior of the hive. John quickly jerks back up. Next to him Sherlock is beaming.

“So?” he says. 

“That’s your doing? You somehow convinced bees that central London was a good place to build a hive?” John jokes.

Sherlock nods. “Yes, I know—impressive,” he says and closes the window. He turns and looks at John and then plants a firm, enthusiastic kiss on his lips. This one is an exclamation mark.

He takes John’s hand and pulls him the short distance to his bed. They sit side by side on the bed, and oddly enough, Sherlock still hangs on to his hand. John is okay with the pace Sherlock is setting for them. Quickly, he kisses Sherlock’s knuckles and releases his hand. 

“I didn’t even know you were interested in bees, Sherlock. Er, why?”

“Take a guess,” says Sherlock.

John has no idea. On first impression, it seems too sedentary a lifestyle for someone like Sherlock, but then again, Sherlock has a way of injecting life into everything.

“Why would I be interested in bees?” asks Sherlock again, expectantly. “ _Think._ ”

“I don’t know—because Mycroft is deathly allergic to them?”

Sherlock smirks, his eyes bright and amused. “Oh, what a just world that would be,” Sherlock says wistfully. 

Then Sherlock is in motion again; he scrambles up on his bed and crawls on his knees to his bedside table on the other side of the bed. He opens a drawer and pulls out a thick khaki folder with sheets sticking out all around the perimeter and tosses it to John. Then he bounces off the bed in order to grab the yellowed print of a bee he has hanging on his wall. He cleans off the thin layer of dust with the sleeve of his bathrobe, climbs back up on the bed and sits crossed-legged, his back against the headboard. 

“Sit here,” Sherlock says as he pats the spot next to him. 

He sits next to him crossed-legged too. Sherlock smiles and opens the folder, spreading the contents over the bed.

“Bees,” he starts, “are fascinating.” 

Sherlock starts explaining his fascination with Apis melliflora (it sounds more like a scientific presentation at a conference than a simple explanation on how the beehive came about). But John doesn’t care. He loves watching his best friend’s face when he’s all animated and happy. 

Sherlock is talking fast as he points to his notes and the print of the bee. He mentions the chemistry ( _it’s not just the honey and the wax, but also the sting venom, John_ ) the physics ( _John, did you know that a bees flight was originally considered aerodynamically impossible?_ ) and even the mathematical components ( _the vortex is what enables the low pressure for flight_ ). Amazingly enough it seems that Sherlock has incorporated all his expertise and interests in honey bees. John waits to see if Sherlock’s also found a link between bees and violin music. It wouldn’t surprise him.

But suddenly Sherlock stops talking, picks up his notes, and drops them on the floor. He stretches his legs out. His face turns serious. 

“When we retire,” Sherlock pauses and turns on his side to face John. John thinks he is rather handsome. Sherlock continues, “John, would you move to the country and raise bees with me?” Sherlock’s eyes are wide and questioning.

Somehow, John feels like laughing. Underneath it all, this sounds like a proposal, doesn’t it? Like a commitment of sorts. For a moment, he imagines how strange the vows would sound at a wedding. _Dearly beloved, do you promise to one day stop running after criminals, move to the country together, and raise bees ‘til death do you apart?_

“Yes,” John says simply.

Sherlock exhales. “Good. That’s good.” Sherlock reaches up, and they kiss. It’s just part of their bucket list corollary after all.

 

~~~***~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and reviewing.  
> And *Happy New Year 2014*, dear Sherlockians! :D

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for 'Let's Write Sherlock' Challenge on Tumblr. Hope you enjoyed! By the way, all the items on the first draft of Sherlock's bucket list are 'real' mysteries. (Wouldn't he just love Severed Foot Beach!? :D)


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